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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158429">Now Nothing Ever, Ever Goes My Way</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HP_Lovecats/pseuds/Coffin%20Liqueur'>Coffin Liqueur (HP_Lovecats)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Domestic Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Game: Resident Evil 7, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Death, Pre-Canon, teenage angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:01:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,642</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HP_Lovecats/pseuds/Coffin%20Liqueur</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When <i>was</i> the last time he had cried?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Now Nothing Ever, Ever Goes My Way</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for a Discord server prompt!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> the last time he’d cried?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...Fuck.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He guessed he mighta been fifteen, maybe. It felt like that was too soon ago for comfort. Same time, it felt like it didn’t count.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’d neither been from nor gone nowhere, really, anyhoo - he didn’t know what’d come over him. A good ol’ try for old time’s sake, on one a’ those nights: a shouting-at from a drunk Literal Motherfucker who’d caught him with his hands in the trash, feelin’ in his gut or some shit, fuck, that there mighta been something in there that night that would’ve been missed. That Lucas was too old to be playin’ with toys and leaving messes that he didn’t know how to clean up anyway; why couldn’t he be puttin’ his gearhead ass to Good Use, instead, something Lucas still weren’t sure he understood the intended meaning of. The yellin’ and yellin’ and bellowing that made him shrink down until he was small, and when he stepped forward, ready to try to bargain his way outta there and to scurrying his way on up into the attic, with a backhand swing he caught knuckles to where the flesh pressed thin over the bone of his cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t the worst smack he’d ever gotten, or ever would, even if it had left burnin’ little red marks that he could feel his pulse just under, tiny vessels like slimy bubbles bumpin’ and shuddering against each other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hell, he hadn’t even really felt the </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain</span>
  </em>
  <span> apart from the moment of impact. Not through roilin’ hot-steamin’ in his head that’d wanted to rake its way outta him in a scream like a bird guardian’ a stash; through a million sharp-without-bein’-sharp spurs kicked into his arms and his back and flingin’ his eyes wide open and injecting him with adrenaline and </span>
  <em>
    <span>run… run, </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>run!</em>
  </b>
  <span> and settin’ his scrawny-youth limbs flyin’ into tangles as he raced up the steps lookin’ behind him</span>
  <em>
    <span> lookin’ lookin’ lookin’ don’t follow go GONE</span>
  </em>
  <span> on Mama’s voice callin’ to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not Dad not Dad </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>the old bastard</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> that’s </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>all</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span> he is — ! </span>
  </em>
  <span>on the edge a’ shrieking with… not even anger but frustration, not that he cared any as long as it’d hold Jacky-Boy back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d wanted his out, and he’d gotten it, makin’ a beeline for the room in which his and Zoe’s old beds sat like they’d never gone outta use - where the ladder was to his Secret Loft, a.k.a. the attic that’d already had its secrecy defiled once, trapdoor removed to leave it open. (He blamed dead Oliver for that, and not himself - wished the kid coulda just </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappeared </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead a’ making that </span>
  <em>
    <span>seeping stain</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the ceiling, making that smell that had drawn Mama to coax him into letting down the ladder; wished that he coulda left only bones for him to craft with and keep his secret forever in a buncha vengeful macabre little trophies.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d slammed the door behind him outta stiffness, and froze, cold shocked into his arms and legs and rocketed up his spine up to the back o’ his brain. Dad heard that, he’d thought, too fast to correct himself and his guard locked too tight to notice his slip-up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d frozen, arms out and braced with his back against the wood behind him, tryin’ not to breathe too loud but unable to keep himself from breathin’ rough. His eyes had ticked into their corners. Mama and the old man were shouting at each other, still downstairs. He heard his name. It made his blood boil, and satisfied that they weren’t movin’, he let the boil rise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lucas had dropped his head. Grimaced as the heat rose up into his face, twisting all through his cheeks and lips. The boil had poured over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That</span>
  </em>
  <span> had been the first time he’d cried in a while, and the last time he’d cried ever. He’d sunk down against the door, draggin’ his giraffe-spindly legs in toward himself. Rested his chest and arms on the tops of bruisy knobbly knees and sniffed and openly hiccuped soft little sounds and let the water pour.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right on eyes narrowed accusatory over a hard-toothed scowl.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d scowled, of course, over the old man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Growling and seething into the void for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hundredth fucking millionth damn fucking time</span>
  </em>
  <span> as a promise, and as a retaliatory kinda act taken in safety - pride said “never let it be known that you didn’t at least show yer teeth, even if you un-fucking fairly couldn’t fight back. Give ‘em the signs that </span>
  <em>
    <span>it ain’t over</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and you’re still ready to scrap, and one of these days, you’re gonna”, even if where only he could hear the fuckin’ results.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it hadn’t just been over Jack.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tears, after all, hadn’t been for him at all. Still wasn’t as if he’d really felt the smack smarting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Again, they’d been a try for old times’ sake. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>test</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d known what the result of was gonna be.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And half the scowl and looking-a-dagger was for Mama.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crying used to mean that he’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>won</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when he was a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>nipper</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When what’d happened with Oliver had seen his limits shrinking for fightin’ back when the little shits at school had called him a weirdo or bad or any number of things that stopped meaning what they thought it meant, for instance, he’d begun to do this - boil the heat of his anger into water and pour it outta his eyes as he shuffled toward Mama in front of the school. Sob into her chest about all the nasty things he’d been told by kids who wouldn’t let him play with them or who didn’t think his tricks were funny, and get wrapped in her arms and blocked out of anything but agreement from the one person who’d provide it in return. She’d tell him it was awful. She’d tell him it was unfair. She’d tell him he was a good boy, a smart boy, a bright boy with lots to offer and that he deserved none of anybody’s bullshit, though of course she hadn’t said it that way.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the old man had hollered at him back then, too - or, or shut him in his room for bringing lizards and snakes in from the swamp, or called him things (ones like “selfish” or “lazy” or “disrespectful” or “stubborn” or “proud, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and for what</span>
  </em>
  <span>” that Lucas </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>only understood so much, ‘specially when it came to why they were bad, but had always still heard ‘em for the attacks they’d been intended to be), or, even back then, smacked him, he’d cried.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And in those cases, too, Mama would come flyin’ on over to his side. More hugs, more smoothin’ of his hair, her tellin’ him softly that “I know”, and assurances that he was gonna be better, she was gonna make sure of it, was there anything he wanted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Never in his life had Lucas ever been one to turn down gettin’ something back for his trouble. Little bit a’ compensation for unfairness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it had always been all he’d needed - Mama comin’ to respond. Taking his side. The only referee who’d agree with him that the bullshit given and the fights picked hadn’t been fair ones, hadn’t made sense, and therefore the only one whose calls mattered - she’d come and tell him he was right, and be there even if he’d been fuckin’ baited into a fight he hadn’t been allowed to win, and he’d smiled contentedly every damn time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>See? Someone agrees that I’m right.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Why did anyone cry?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was asking for an assist of some kind, as Lucas understood it. It was why babies cried - they were hungry, or bored, or cold, or whatever. It was why kids cried; they were hurt or scared.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d always cried ‘cause he’d wanted what he saw as the universe showing him some fairness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And he’d gotten it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Had.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...God… damn, when had it ever stopped working? Why had it?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He supposed the last time he’d cried before this, he might’ve been… twelve. Thirteen. Probably over something just like this. So why had Mama just… stopped answering? Started liftin’ her hand, shakin’ her head, and tellin’ him quickly “don’t worry, sweetie, I’ll talk to him about this” before turning on her heel, or doin’ this - stalling the old buzzard down at the disaster site in a bicker he’d never seemed to find out the outcome of, apart from the fact that in another week or two, it’d be umpteenth verse, same as the first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...His had gone dull as he’d heard his name again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d pressed out a hissing, sizzling sigh that had risen up into an increasingly rough moan into a gravelly holler into the sleeves of his shirt as he rubbed his face ‘n his tears hard into.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>...They’d already stopped flowin’.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And his chest had felt hollow, the heat already stemmed, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tsh. Must’ve been because he was too old now, or something. Didn’t need help, or shit like that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or maybe it’d been because she’d changed her mind. The referee who had understood that he wasn’t playin’ by the rules that made him lose just… plain… didn’t anymore. Or didn’t care, or somethin’ like that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So much for fairness, he thought.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d cried this time to prove that to himself once and for all, then, pretty much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks for nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’d thought, with a dry, hollow burn that quickly sizzled off and faded dull. He’d rocked, subtly, against the door. The bickering kept up in the living room; he didn’t hear anything that’d sounded like it was to do with him anymore. The voices seemed to be quieting down some.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He never cried again and it was easy, nothing changing on thinkin’ in words that he was scrappin’ and skulkin’ in this house all by his damn lonesome.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpEHT9blu_0">"Teenage Angst"</a> by Placebo - which honestly feels like a Baker kids-y song in general to me for <i>dat chorus</i>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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